The Grandmaster's Tale

Prologue

I was not intending, originally, to write this story.

The truth of what happened, many years ago, to unseat Grandmaster Boscha from his tenure at Whitehall was carefully buried, with good reason. I, the prime mover in those events, and my comrades had every incentive to keep the truth to ourselves. Those who supported Boscha and found themselves vulnerable when his influence was broken had similar reasons to keep their mouths shut. The cover story has remained firmly in place until this day.

This statement will not see publication, like my prior missive, until after the death of everyone involved. The spells I have woven into the parchment will see to it.

The background, of course, is fairly well known. The war was over. The empire was gone. The necromancers were a distant threat and the Allied Lands, the union of kingdoms that spent more time fighting each other than the common foe, only existed in embryo. The schools, once loyal to the Emperor and his court of magicians, were effectively independent, practically statelets in their own right. Their masters had authority and influence, at least in part, because no one had the power to tell them no. It was a situation calling for tact, diplomacy and a certain willingness to compromise. Grandmaster Boscha had none of those things.

He was a … difficult person to understand, let alone like. He had reached the peak of his profession, securing a position that would put his name in the historical records, yet he wanted more. He had little interest, as far as I could tell, in actually ruling the school, leaving the task of keeping the students in order to his staff and prefects. My brothers and I spent six years of our lives at Whitehall, and the only time we ever spoke to him privately, or visited his office, was when we were punished for the heinous crime of defending ourselves against bratty aristos who thought they were better than us just because they knew their mother’s name. It was bad enough that we’d been attacked by nine older students who should, on paper, have wiped the floor with us, but worse that the four of us—after winning the fight—were punished. Boscha didn’t care. Our attackers were well connected and that was all that mattered to him. It made sense to me at the time—who cares about four magicians of dubious origin when their attackers had the purest pedigrees anyone could possibly want?—but as I grew older I found the whole affair incomprehensible. Boscha didn’t need to suck up to anyone, not then. It wasn’t until much later that I found out why.

It had surprised me, when I applied for the post of Charms Master at Whitehall, that he’d accepted me. In hindsight, I wonder if he even bothered to look at the name on the application letter. I had the skills and experience to handle the job, but my family had effectively disowned me—after the incident that left two of my half-brothers dead and a third lost to himself—and I brought nothing beyond myself. There was never any shortage of candidates for any post at Whitehall, from senior tutor to scullery maid, even though the students were rambunctious and prone to abusing both tutors and maids. The tutors, at least, could defend themselves. The maids … well, let’s just say there was a reason there used to be an orphanage in Dragon’s Den. Boscha didn’t care about that either. I had theories about why, but none of them quite fitted the facts. Perhaps he really didn’t care. Who knew?

I was quick to establish my authority. Students, particularly ones with magic or aristocracy or both, are like wild animals. You can’t show them a hint of weakness, or they’ll walk all over you, the girls as well as the boys. You can’t be one of the boys—or girls—either, not if you want to be a disciplinarian. The idea of letting yourself become friendly – or romantically involved—with a student is dangerous beyond words. You had to keep a mental barrier between you and them at all times or, at best, you’d wind up humiliated in front of the entire school. At worst … you don’t want to know. Really, you don’t.

It worked, slowly but surely. I proved I knew what I was talking about—the handful of students who challenged me were effortlessly shown their place—and that I was actually worth taking seriously. Students have no respect for tutors who clearly don’t know what they’re doing or lack the personal authority to make themselves heard, but I never had a problem. The disruptions that shook other classrooms never plagued mine after the first year. Indeed, I was often called upon to help other tutors handle their classes. Not all of them were grateful. But who could blame them? To admit you needed help was to weaken yourself in the eyes of the students. And the tutors.

I could have been happy, I suppose, if I’d stayed a tutor the rest of my life. I’d done well, and I knew it, rising to the tenured post of senior tutor. I had a reputation as a tutor no one crossed, certainly not twice, and I had far fewer problems with the students once they realised that I could still see, even though I was blind. The world might be shades of grey, rather than bright primary colours, but I had no difficulty living a full life. I could have gone into Whitehall and stayed there for the rest of my life, leaving the rest of the world behind. I could have been happy.

But it was not to be.

I had been a tutor for five years when the outside world intruded into my academic paradise, and all hell threatened to break loose.

It wasn’t until it was almost too late that I realised it had been invited.